


and you want to travel blind

by heterocosmica



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Confusion, Coping, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nudity, Severus Snape Lives, and confusing, blood mention, emotions are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-17 13:39:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18099584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heterocosmica/pseuds/heterocosmica
Summary: And just when you mean to tell her // That you have no love to give her // Then she gets you on her wavelength // And she lets the river answer // That you've always been her lover // And you want to travel with her





	and you want to travel blind

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this is but it sure took a while to write. Can't really say I edited any of it though. Basically, the process for this one was me typing random images and moments that popped into my head into a note app on my phone while riding public transport and then putting it together in a half hour. Kinda like it, though.  
> //  
> Not in any way related to my Happy Snape Family AU

**1975**

There was a girl staring at him. A tiny first year with big eyes and a long mess of hair stood at the same platform as him and unapologetically stared. Unblinking. Straight at him. 

Clad in an obviously old pink t-shirt and a pair of shorts with a hole near the right pantleg hem, the little thing looked wild. It suddenly struck him that that was what _he_ looked like, years ago, back before he met Lily. Before he'd gone to Hogwarts for the first time. All eager, greedy, and amazed.

As she took a tentative step towards him, he finally caught her eye and, like a scared kitten, she turned and ran inside the train. 

Silently slipping away from the Evanses, he went to pick up the army bag the kid left behind. He lifted it with some effort before dropping it on top of his case and getting on the train himself, resolving to find the girl as soon as possible and unload what must have been her bag of bricks.

**1976**

After everything was done, he pulled himself off the ground and stood on shaky legs. His hip twinged with every movement and his vision swam but, he slowly and carefully picked up first his wand and then his pants. He didn't care who was watching anymore. What more could they possibly see?

Leaning on the tree, he tried to pull his pants back on but he couldn't steady himself enough to lift a foot without falling. His hands shook and his head swam and, for a long moment, he debated sitting on the ground and doing it that way but, that would have put him at the risk of exposing himself again and he couldn't bring himself to do so.

Then there she was, holding him up with one hand and reaching for the pants in his hand with the other. The little wild girl with the too big eyes and messy hair, there, next to him. So he let her do whatever she wanted, swayed by her big, wet eyes.

She gently took the pants from his hand and sunk down to her knees in front of him. Slowly, and propping him up with her shoulder, she lifted his feet one by one, pushing the leg holes around them. Without shame or scorn, or any reaction, really, she pulled them up under his robes and stood. Letting him lean on her, she led him to the hospital wing, taking excruciatingly slow steps.

In front of the door, she paused and turned to him. When he finally managed to discern that she was searching for something to say, he took the chance to speak.

"Uh, thanks but you should go. I'm fine." around the ball forming in his throat, he only managed to choke out a "Please." before pushing her away and turning to head to the Slytherin dorms.

**1977**

The moment a pair of small cold hands touched his face, his eyes swung open. And there she was, in his bedroom, in his home, in his bed, sitting on his chest. Her dark, messy hair was all around them and her hands were _still_ on his face.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asked with, what he felt was the appropriate amount of anger. After all, this wasn’t something he wanted to bother with the day after his mother’s funeral. Not now.

He was beyond furious.

Grabbing her wrists, he flipped them around and pressed her into the mattress. His was nose to nose with her, a snarl on his face as he growled. “Answer me.”

She only smiled, pity in her eyes shining clearly.

“I heard.”

Suddenly, he deflated, sinking on top of her.

“Have you cried?”

“No…” he breathed out “What is there to cry about?”

Slowly, she lifted her hand to the back of his head.

“Nothing, I guess.” She whispered in his ear.

After a few moments, her shoulder got wet. He was shaking in her arms, sobbing silently.

**1979**

He was walking down the crowded street, food and game stands all around him. There were little kids with sticky fingers pushing around him, people yelling from all sides, and the smell of burnt sugar and grease in the air. None of it felt important enough to care about, none of it was big enough to be engaging.

He was taking long strides, rushing to the little square across from the Protestant Church.

As he walked, the crowd got thicker. More men were suddenly there, walking in the same direction as him, whispering about “the girls”.

The closer he got, the more his hands shook. His breaths became quicker and quicker. His heart pounded.

Then he got to the square. The talk around the neighbourhood was right. There were girls…dancing, twirling, singing.

He watched with wide eyes, shocked and amazed. They were all so beautiful, so free, so captivating. But that wasn’t why he was there. He wasn’t there to ogle the girls dancing or try and peek under their skirts, like the boys in the group next to him. He was there because she was there.

And she was, at the edge of the crowd, spinning wildly, her eyes bright and open wide, face tilted to the sky, awash with sunlight. Her dark hair bounced and flew in the air around her, like an aura of mischief. When their eyes met, his heart thumped.

It felt like the time he first saw her, and yet somehow, completely different. He felt like he was the feral one this time, wild and hungry.

He took a step towards her and she met him there, so swiftly and smoothly that he thought she must have used a levitation charm. And then her face was right there, in front of his. And her hands were in his.

“You came?” She said, walking backwards and pulling him along.

“You said you wanted to speak with me.”

“I did.”

With a raised eyebrow and her tongue poking out to lick her lower lip, she paused. His eyes flickered to her dark, wet lips and he wondered how she could look so much like a child and so much like a tigress at the same time.

Slowly, she pulled him to a dark corner, right behind the expensive dress shop opposite the Church.

“I heard rumours.” She said, pulling his left arm closer and pushing the sleeve up.

He realised a moment too late what she was doing and, with a yell pushed her away, fingers pulling his sleeve down but, lying down on the ground, her palms bloody, she was looking at him with horror and he knew that she had seen, that she had gotten her confirmation.

Slowly, she got on her knees and pulled at the waist of his trousers. “Severus, look at me.” Her voice was firm and he couldn’t help but look down, into her big wet eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

And then she slipped away. His eyes searched the crowd for her in vain but there was no sign of her. He was just left standing there, blood stains on his trousers.

**1980**

His very first class was the sixth year Hufflepuff and Slytherin class. In utter lack of preparation (and abundance of panic), he decided to go the Slughorn route for the sixth years. It had taken way too long to brew the three potions, with the extra duties he suddenly had but, there they were, three cauldrons full of potions that really shouldn't be sat in front of teenagers but, what else was he supposed to do?

His shoulders were drooping, the bags under his eyes were a dark sickly brown, his hands were shaking but-

that was what his life had turned into. Teaching. Spying. Never getting to leave the hell of Hogwarts. With that realisation, he steadied himself, lifted his head up, and opened his classroom door.

The students filed in, staring at him with disgust, disdain, disrespect. He knew that, without a doubt, they all remembered him. There were whispers all around him and, when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. And then he caught her eye.

She was standing by one of the back tables, a picture of poise and calm, looking at him with a smile dancing in her eyes. And then suddenly, he was himself again. He pulled himself together, speaking with authority and thinly vailed contempt, and by the end of the lesson, the class was in line. 

Still, his eyes kept slipping to her form. Every time her long braid swished, he'd glance her way. Any sound she made, he'd be pulled in her direction. He just couldn't help it. And in the end, when she gently placed a phial of her perfectly brewed antidote on his desk, he almost asked her to stay. How was he to hold other classes after she left?

She paused in front of him, leaned a bit closer, and smiled. He could smell jasmine and feel the ends of her braid on his knee and it pulled him out of the strange mood she always put him in. Suddenly, he was mad. How could a silly little girl push and pull and mould his mind so easily? And how dare she? So, as she opened her mouth to speak, he interrupted her.

"Miss Rahmatova, you'll surely be late for your next class if you keep dilly dallying."

Her smile dropped and her eyes got a severe look but she pulled away carefully.

"Yes, of course, Professor" she said with a bite "I should go."

As the door closed after her, he stood and walked up to the cauldron full of Amortentia. He took a deep breath above it, almost scared of what it would smell like but, its scent hadn't changed. It was tiger lilies and dry summer grass, as it always had been.

For some indescribable reason, he was disappointed.

**1981**

The school was abuzz with celebration but he couldn't bear it. Instead, he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry. Not to break into sobs that were threatening to burst out with every shaky breath he took.

They would come for him soon. They would come and his life would change again and it would be a new hell but he'd be damned if he walked into Azkaban with red, swollen eyes. Not after what Dumbledore told him. Not now that he knew this could last until the boy was an adult. He wouldn't allow for his cover to be shaken when there was still work to be done.

The swish of robes and the patter of bare feet in his living area startled him out of his daze almost violently, and he, on the verge of tears, let out a dry sob.

Suddenly, she was there, crawling into bed with him, pulling him close and holding onto him tightly.

"You go on." she whispered into his hair "Days pass, life changes, and you go on because you have to."

With a shaky voice, he let out, barely audible "You don't know what I am."

"Don’t I?"

Without any more to say, they lay there, her clinging to him with all her might, grounding him in the moment.

He could feel her hot breath on his face and, as his breathing picked up the rhythm of hers, he slowly drifted off.

They didn't come the next day. Or the day after. 

Still, every night, she would sneak into his rooms, slip under his covers next to him, and hold him tight.

It took six days for someone to give him up. Six days for the Aurors to come for him. 

They burst into his classroom in the middle of a double period with the seventh years and his eyes went to her in a sudden panic that she will do- something. She didn't, thankfully. She only smiled a soft smile, the look on her face one he'd never seen directed at himself before and, as they pulled him away, he pondered on it, trying to figure out the meaning behind it.

He spent only two days in Azkaban. They felt like years but, once he got out and the time started up anew, he could appreciate that only two days is less than three. Less than a week. Less than his life.

When he finally got to his rooms, she was there, in his bed, asleep. The sight of her made a weight fall from his chest and, crawling in the bed with her, he finally let himself cry. Sobs wreaked his whole body and, as he pulled her closer, she opened her eyes to look at him.

In the morning, he changed the password to his rooms.

**1982**

She was twisting and turning to the music coming from his parents' old record player. Johnnie Ray's voice crinkled and cracked as he crooned about how "you'd be surprised" and she laughed brightly every time he sang the "oo-ooh".

He was sitting in the armchair, looking at the movements of her bare feet. The hopping, skipping, and sliding along the worn carpet was making the sides of her feet a dark red and for the briefest moment, he wondered if it hurt.

With a grin on her face, she stumbled towards him, her long hair swishing and bouncing around her bare thighs. Slowly, she leaned down close and, nose to nose with him, said "Come on, professor, won't you dance with me?"

Her breath smelled of bitter coffee, her hair of jasmine, and her lips shone, wet and red, and he wanted, more than ever before, to lean in, close the gap, and kiss her. He wanted to taste her, pull her close, sink under her skin, keep her there forever. But, just like every time before, any emotion she inspired was fleeting.

With a long-suffering sigh, he let her pull him to his feet.

Soon, he couldn't stop himself from smiling, her hand in his, taking large steps around his living room, waving their joined hands in the air.

The day smelled like summer and he felt free for the first time in a long time. He could feel a sparkle bubbling under his skin. It almost felt like he was... young. Free.

The soft morning turned into a sweaty afternoon and they spent it in a comfortable quiet, sweaty skin sticking to sweaty skin with every touch as they lay on the carpet in the middle of a living room of a house that was his only in name. Occasionally, the flickers of the past would spark up but there she was, jasmine and coarse hair sliding along his arms. They didn't eat, or drink, or speak, but, with every breath, he felt complete.

As the night fell, she rose from his floor, a sad smile on her too red lips. She leaned down close, nose to nose with him, and whispered "Do you want me to stay?"

Her hair fell around them and it felt as if they were the only two people in existence, just him and her in the darkness. And he wanted her to stay, he did, but he knew he shouldn't and he knew she wouldn't, so he said "No" his voice cracking on the o.

He clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see her face as he said it.

When he opened them, she was gone.

**1992**

When he woke up that morning, the first thing he saw was a pair of golden earrings on his bedside table. They were a heavy pair, with hooks of gold wire that attaches to the top of the earlobe to help carry the weight, littered with small red stones and shaped with extreme detail. In the haze of having just woken up, he reached for them. One bony hand touched an earring, inspecting the intricate design. Perhaps it was intended as an image but, all he saw was wire, winding around stones and itself in a tangle.

Slowly, his senses started waking and he registered the sound of a person puttering around his bathroom. With a confused frown, he sat up in his bed and looked around his bedroom, trying to piece together the events of the night before with something akin to panic.

There was a bright red dress with golden embroidery thrown haphazardly over his desk chair, a modest red bra on the floor, and his black formal robes, put on a hanger with seemingly infinite care and attention, hanging off of his wardrobe door. Nothing else looked in any way different from the norm. It was almost as if whoever was in his bathroom had been there before and therefore not felt the need to snoop through his personal space.

Considering how private of a person he was, it really only left one possibility to the identity of the mysterious person in his bathroom, which was quickly confirmed when she started singing. With an exasperated sigh, he dropped back on the bed, only lightly hitting his head on the headboard and muttering a curse. Any sound he made was drowned out by the cooing of “Oi, lule, lule, mace, ma-ace” and he snorted in disgust.

By the time she finally walked out of the bathroom, his annoyance had built up enough that he was ready to dress her down, but the moment his eyes landed on her, his breath caught. It had been years since he last saw her and suddenly, she seemed like a whole new person.

Her face had the first signs of aging, soft laugh lines around her eyes and mouth that he only noticed because she was smiling at him in that moment, and slightly purple bags under her eyes that spoke a bit too well of the night before. He had never seen her naked before, nor had he considered her sexually in any of their previous interactions, but now that she was there, walking around his bedroom in nothing but red pants, he couldn't shake the thought that they must have had sex last night, nor could he shake the regret that he couldn't recall it.

She kept humming, a gentle smile still on her face, as she reached for her bra on the floor and his eyes instantly jumped to the sway of her full breasts. Absentmindedly, he noted the softness of her figure and the measured gentleness of her movement and wondered in passing if she had children, a family, a life without him.

It wasn't really his right to care about or know those things. After all, it had been a decade since he last saw her or had any contact with her, and though he thought of her often, he never even considered putting in an effort to reconnect or reach out.

She slipped on her dress, buttoning slowly up her back, her nimble fingers almost dancing.

He couldn't help but wonder if she'd say something, anything, before she left.

She didn't.

With a gentle smile as her only goodbye, she turned on her heel and apparated away. Suddenly, he was left in the empty silence of his house, alone and dazed. The only sign that she had ever been there was the pair of earrings left behind, one in his hand, the other on his night table.

Perhaps she'd come back for them in another ten years?

**1993**

He found her in his kitchen one morning. A morning quite like every other summer morning, or it would have been, had she not been there. Instead, he was struck by an image of her, kneading dough at his small kitchen table like his mother used to, back when Da still had a job. Back when they could still afford to feel like people.

Her dark hair was up in an impeccable bun and she didn’t lift her head when he walked. She just kept kneading the dough, her small hands sinking in soft, smooth texture.

The smell of yeast lingered in the air, sharp but comforting, and it was only when he felt his hair sway that he noticed all the windows were open.

His eyes jumped around the room, suddenly vigilant, noting all the changes. The floor was polished, the curtains freshly washed, and the windows shone, clear and clean for the first time in a long while. He'd never seen his kitchen looking so... impeccable.

Suddenly, she lifted her head to look at him and her eyes met his. A bright smile broke out on her face and she lifted a sticky hand from the dough to sweep an imagined strand of hair from her face.

"Could you grease that pan, maybe? I'm almost done."

Her words, spoken as if it had been an everyday occurrence to find her in his home, prompted him into action. Strangely enough, even though his mind insisted he ought to complain, yell, and throw her out, he complied with her request, quickly washing his hands at the sink before grabbing the pan she had gestured to and smearing lard inside it.

While she braided the dough into the pan, he took the time to look at her carefully. The laugh lines at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced than ever. Her lips were red and cracked, raw in the spots she must have peeled the skin off. The dimples on her shoulders were deeper than he remembered them, probably owing to her slight weight gain.

The picture of her in his mind shifted, as it did whenever he saw her, and he frowned. Why couldn't she have been a constant? A singularity? Something he could finish learning about. He wished he could learn her and dismiss her as something familiar but unimportant. As something unneeded. But there she was, pushing into his life, making him stare and care and think about her. And then she would leave all over again and he would be stuck being wrong.

She moved around his kitchen like it was hers, all smooth and swift, he almost envied her ease, and when the bread was in the oven, she turned to him and said with uncertainty

"I should go."

Before he could respond, she had turned and disappeared.

**1995**

Pain. There was nothing but pain for him that night.

The whole world blurred and swam and his rug really smelled too much of dust. His face was buried in it anyway, pushing into the faded pattern, subconsciously trying to sink into the floor.

Then there were cold hands on his arms. Cold hands pulling his clothes off. Cold hands washing him and putting him to bed. Cold hands petting his head as his eyes slipped close and he drifted off.

When he woke up, there was a cold glass of water and a dark phial of pain relief potion on his bedside and no sign that anyone had been there.

**1998**

When the war finally ended for good, he thought he was about to die.

Everything was over. He was done. He had played his part and this was the end. He had made peace with it a long, long time ago, almost twenty years, and he would finally get to rest.

And then he felt soft hands on his neck, a tight press of cloth. The bitter scent of nettle spread through the air and suddenly, his head felt clearer. His sight wasn't blurred anymore and his breath flowed normally for a magnificent moment and he thought,  _I must be dead._

Then the pain came. Excruciating and burning but life affirming all the same. And not nearly as harsh as a Cruciatus.

Right before he lost consciousness, he heard a soft voice say "Well. That is going to scar."

**2000**

He saw her in a Muggle library. The one in Manchester, where his mother took him every time they needed to give his father some space. The one where he learned to read and write. The one where he and Lily had their first kiss.

She was sitting at one of the large study desks near the very back, books strewn all around her, focusing intently on a thick tome. There were three different pens in her right hand and she was switching between them with lightning speed as she took notes from the book in front of her. For a long moment, he just looked at her, trying to block out all thoughts of Hogwarts and that part of his life.

He examined her face, trying to decide if he could tell she was in her middle thirties already. There were small signs. The lines around her eyes were even deeper than the last time he saw her. Her face and body were softer than before. But he didn’t think he would know, if he hadn’t known her for so long. After all, her eyes still shone with that same feral energy, her mouth still twitched holding back her smiles.

Without any clear intent, he walked to her desk and sat down in the chair across from hers. She didn’t look up so he took the chance to examine her more closely. Her lips were dry and a deep, raw red in places. It made him think of summers and coffee and jasmine and hair everywhere. It felt like he had stepped into a different part of his life, a different reality. One that was more free, kinder to his soul.

“I’ve missed you.” He let himself say.

She looked up, her eyes bright and full of fire. Slowly, her mouth stretched into a kind smile.

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Me too.”

She looked at him, a softness in her eyes that he had never seen before.

“Thank you.”

**2006**

For the first time ever, he wakes before her. It’s a rare treat, getting to see her sleeping face, listen to her breathe, watch her rouse with the dawn.

He looks at her lined face. And the slowly greying hair spread out over both of their pillows. At her slightly open mouth and the dribble of drool coming out of the corner of it. Moves the cover to the side to look at her soft body. Her full, sagging breasts and round, stretchmark covered hips. Her stomach and thighs and bumpy knees. And the dimples on her shoulders and above her elbows and at the bottom of her back.

He slides his eyes over her body and face, looking at her almost unnaturally still body and then looks down at himself. For a long moment, he lets himself wonder what she sees in him. What she ever saw in him.

He looks at his own bony legs and pudgy belly and scarred ribs and chest and wonders what other men his age look like. And if he was finally at the age where it didn’t matter.

Looking back at her, he’s met with her shiny eyes and bright smile.

“Good morning.” She says with a soft, raspy voice and all thoughts of appearance and age evaporate from his mind instantly.

He dips down to kiss her slowly and, when they part, asks “Are you staying?”

After a drawn-out pause, she lets out a tentative “Do you want me to?” and this time, he says yes.


End file.
